Mail
by dear cecil
Summary: Scout is always the one to bring the mail bag to the kitchen.


Written during a late-night stream.

* * *

Scout leans against the outside wall of the base, trying not to count the minutes until the mail arrives. He presses the tips of his fingers hard between his front teeth, biting off pieces of the clear, useless skin just at the end of the nail, swallowing it because it always gets stuck on his lips when he spits it out, and because he has nothing better to do while he stands in the midday sun. Normally he'd bite his nails, but he's already forced them down so far that he can't get a good hold with his teeth anymore. On top of that, the skin there is always red and raw, like it's going to start bleeding any second.

He sees the train inch over the horizon, smoke trailing thick behind it like one of Spy's stinking cigarettes, and slides his thumb into his mouth. He presses the pad of it hard against one top of his teeth, and grinds one of his bottom canines on the nail, trying to distract himself from his anxiety by wondering how hard he'd have to press down to break the skin, or how much he'd have to grind to maybe cut through the nail. Just when he's thinking about how fucking stupid that would be, and how much blood he would get on his shirt, Sniper walks out with a mug of coffee in his hand. He raises the other over his eyes when he looks out at the train, like his sunglasses don't shield his eyes well enough.

Sniper turns around, and frowns when he sees Scout's hand at his mouth. "Nasty habit," he says. Scout notices Sniper's hand twitch like he's going to bring it up to show Scout what he means, like he's fucking six years old. His teammates all do that—moments where they feel like he needs to be educated, where they treat him like he hasn't learned anything because he's only half their age. It makes his hands ache to grab his bat and slam it across each and every one of their faces.

Instead, he just tears more useless skin off of his thumb. "At least I don't drink coffee at one in the afternoon." Sniper shrugs, ignoring Scout's glare. "You waiting for something?"

"The train, kid."

"Whatever. And don't fucking call me kid."

Sniper just sighs and strides off, bound for some private spot that probably has better shade than Scout's, or which is at least more comfortable. He doesn't care; just shoves a finger back in his mouth and watches the train come closer. He's sure he could run faster than the huge hunk of metal is moving right now, and he'd be a lot quieter, too… but his Ma always told him that the more patiently you wait for something, the better your reward is, or some shit like that. He only ever listened when he had to, like when he was waiting for dinner to get done cooking, or for wounds to quit bleeding, or for a stupid motherfucking train to just get through the goddamn desert and bring him his stupid mail, shit.

As soon as the train gets close, Scout pushes off the wall and grins. "Finally, Jesus Christ." The thing's brakes are squealing like a pig for the slaughter, making his ears ring and his head feel like it just got bashed against concrete, but he powers through it and steps up to the edge of the platform, ignoring the rush of the train toward him. It comes to a stop and he waits for the lackey working for BLU to hop out with the little bag of mail and shove it into his arms, like always.

The same man always comes to the base; he's portly, his nose is always red, and he has a moustache that hangs over his mouth like the pile of vines in his ma's garden. He hop-steps over to Scout and hands him the bag, and Scout doesn't stick around to figure out what the box Sniper's getting is for. He just walks to the kitchen of the base and dumps the bag on the table, tugs it open, and starts looking for his letter. There's always a letter.

He finds it at the bottom of the pile, a little, off-white rectangle with his ma's handwriting on it in dark blue cursive, everything neat and precise. Scout lets the bag slump over, and the rest of the mail slides onto the kitchen table. He leaves it there and walks to his room in double-time, shutting the door behind him with uncharacteristic gentleness, not wanting to draw any attention to himself. He grabs the back of the single chair in his room and pushes it beneath his door knob, then sits on the bed and tears open the envelope, tossing it on the ground once he's got the letter.

There are only two pages, and to anyone else, they would be boring. His ma loves to go on about things that aren't important—what she saw at the grocery store, what she was talking about to Mr. Dawson across the street, what the cat did, new recipes she found—but each word brings him closer to home. The tension in his shoulders that he's used to having is gone, there's a smile on his face, and for once, he doesn't feel like biting his nails, like digging straight into the bones of his hands and feeling the pain.

The Administrator's voice blares through the base, and he drops the letter onto his bed, and suddenly he's tense again as he grabs his bat from beside the bed and kicks his chair away from the door.


End file.
